


they wear away

by whose baby is this (CarnivorousMoogle)



Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Abuse, Body Horror, Child Death, Choking, Drabble Compilation, Dubious Consent, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Multi, changelingification horror, not dubious at all consent, this is the triggery one, will add tags as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 17:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12462801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarnivorousMoogle/pseuds/whose%20baby%20is%20this
Summary: and break.(drabble compilation)





	1. always another (nomura)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a compilation of any drabbles of mine that don't feel like they need to be separate fics. It's also for the more triggery or explicit of my drabbles; lighter-hearted ones are in my other compilation, 'facets.' Most of these are quick and unedited, so don't expect high quality, but I hope you enjoy anyway.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from the prompt 'horror,' by zonbiconbi on tumblr.
> 
> (warnings: character death, child death, implications of awfulness and body horror in the changeling process, just upsetting in general)

He would grow stronger, thought Nomura with pride and excitement, and his knobbly limbs would fill out as much as they needed with time, if not the way they would have. The process would be complete, and the crying and the twisting and the cracking would stop, and she would have another student to teach the bitter ways of their kind.

Her disappointment was as sharp as it was quick to fade, when the new little changeling did not grow, and instead breathed his last like a sigh of relief. There would always be more, she supposed.


	2. mutual (strickjim)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> blackrom strickjim, for anon on tumblr.
> 
> (warnings: noncon, rationalizing-consent dubcon, non-explicit underage, implied victim-blaming)

Jim is disturbed, sometimes, by how good and how right it feels to wrap his fingers around Strickler’s throat and bear _down._

He’s more disturbed by the way he finds himself listening for moans in Strickler’s choking and gurgling; by the fact that he genuinely can’t tell what he’s hearing, even more. And if he finds himself pressing and sliding their hips together as Strickler glares up at him with sulfurous hatred in his eyes, claws at his wrists with spindly fingers growing frantic and weak… well, he supposes that’s alright with him. The feeling is more than mutual.


	3. stay down (stricklar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stricklar, heat/rut and manipulation, based on a prompt by darkland dog from tumblr.
> 
> (warnings: violence, fantastic racism, dubious consent via manipulation/altered state/breaking terms of consent)

He can smell Bular’s rut before he ever sets foot in the cavern. 

“Good afternoon,” Strickler drawls, stepping primly around the rocks scattered around the floor. The huge dark shape balled up against the far wall stirs, and a wave of heat and rut-scent rolls over Strickler like the breath from an oven. A low growl is the only reply.

He wrinkles his nose. “Unpleasant, isn’t it. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t find one human or another to take the edge off the thirdmoon.” Seventhmoon, more like, or eighth, for him. He’s always been an irregular one. “You, on the other hand… No trolls, even. All down in Trollmarket, or with Gunmar.” 

The growl falters, and rises.

Strickler watches him carefully, and does not approach. “I can’t imagine it’s enjoyable.”

“You impure do well enough,” rumbles Bular, the first words he’s said. His voice sticks to itself like honey and tar, and his impatience makes his scent spike in a way that sets Strickler’s spine stiff and nose twitching. “Your false pity is an affront and I have no need of it.”

“I see none of my brethren.” He is treading dangerous ground. “They know to stay far away from this place while it smells of you, and while the sun shines over the exit. There is only me, and there will be _only_ me until the night falls.”

Bular’s eyes track him like coals. The scent is going to Strickler’s head, letting his tongue loose, and he can feel the careful needlepoints of caution slipping off.the edges of his words.

“The days are long in summer. The night falls late. How long are you willing to wait for it, Bular? How much patience do you really have?”

The silence is heavy and humid, and for a moment Strickler wonders if he has gone too far. “What do you want, Impure?”

Strickler’s heart pounds in his ears. He doesn’t show it, and doesn’t shake, and the lilt in his voice is long-practiced. “Why, to serve your father’s interests, and bring his reign. I can only wonder what he’d think, if he knew how much time you spent huddling through your ruts instead of getting it over with to do his work.” 

The way Bular’s eyes glow in the dark makes it too easy to see how he flinches. Good, Strickler thinks savagely, he can be the one to feel it for once. Sickly sweet, faithful servant. “I am simply offering to help.” 

Bular huffs, and huffs again, and snorts. Scenting. He’s clearly considering, and his black tongue swipes over his tusks. “Your glamour. Remove it.”

He’s won. Strickler does as he asks, willing himself not to blink in the green light as he climbs out of his glamour and tries to look alluring. He doubts Bular will care–it’s the troll-scent he wants a better look at–but it’s the principle of the thing. 

Apparently he is satisfied with whatever it is he smells. There’s a shift in the shadowy mass of living stone, just so slightly larger than Strickler was expecting it to be, and Bular shifts onto his side to expose his glistening dark cock. Strickler has seen it before, but it’s more intimidating than he’s used to, painfully erect and dripping from between every plate, and the rut-scent is so powerful it makes him a little lightheaded.

“Come here,” Bular rumbles, and his voice is heavier now. Angry, but impatient. He’s not one for delayed gratification, and Strickler is more than happy to make use of that. He picks his way across the floor toward him, path straightening as he reaches the space Bular has cleared for himself, and makes as if to climb atop him.

He doesn’t get the chance. One huge palm envelops his face and blacks out his vision, claws digging into his cheeks and hair; his muffled cry of alarm is cut off by Bular slamming him into the floor, where he lies stunned and hiccuping.

“You wish to serve my father? _Stay down_ ,” rasps Bular, and rolls his weight and heat and rut-scent over onto Strickler like a tomb.


End file.
